him. Otherwise she would have thrown it all up. It has dragged on since she was eighteen: she became engaged to him before he went abroad to study. It was one of those childish muddles which parents in America might prevent so much more than they do. The thing is to insist on one's daughter's waiting, on the engagement's being long; and then after you have got that started to take it on every occasion as little seriously as possible—to make it die out. You can easily tire it out. How ever, Mr. Porterfield has taken it seriously for some years. He has done his part to keep it alive. She says he adores her.'
'His part? Surely his part would have been to marry her by this time.'
'He has absolutely no money.'
'He ought to have got some, in seven years.'
'So I think she thinks. There are some sorts of poverty that are contemptible. But he has a little more now. That's why he won't wait any longer. His mother has come out, she has something—a little—and she is able to help him. She will live with them and bear some of the expenses, and after her death the son will have what there is.'
'How old is she?' I asked, cynically.
'I haven't the least idea. But it doesn't sound very inspiring. He has not been to America since he first went out.'
'That's an odd way of adoring her.'
'I made that objection mentally, but I didn't express it to her. She met it indeed a little by telling me that he had had other chances to marry.'
'That surprises me,' I remarked. 'And did she say that she had had?'
